


A Great Pair

by vihistoo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Dark!Molly, F/M, Sociopath!Molly, she's not well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:03:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vihistoo/pseuds/vihistoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is wrong with Molly.</p><p>She can see it in the twist of her lips and the light in her eyes.</p><p>Molly sees everything.</p><p>And she laughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Great Pair

**Author's Note:**

> There really is no explanation for this one...
> 
> I just have an unknown need for two sociopathic psychopaths to be together, and if they happen to be characters in Sherlock, all the better.

There was something wrong with Molly.

She knew this.

She was okay with this.

Others were not.

Molly did not have 'friends'. She had two simple categories.

'Yes'

'No'

Them being the answer to a question she asked herself about every person she met.

'Could I kill them?'

The fact that this was not normal was brought to Molly's attention one sunny May afternoon, when she was a young girl, only seven.

"Are we friends?"

Molly had looked up, away from the dead cat she could see in the road behind her school playground. She recognized the girl. Her name was Tristan, and Molly had thought this was unique. Almost as unique as her wild red curls, yet unfreckled face. She was quiet, and never made fun of Molly, and had once loaned her her crayons. The 64 pack, with the sharpner. She thought, and came to an answer.

"I wouldn't kill you," Molly said, flashing the girl a bright, albeit manic smile.

This was apparently the wrong answer, as Tristan's face fell, and her bottom lip began to quiver before she turned and ran away from Molly, hysterically sobbing. Molly frowned, then dropped and picked up a stick, poking at the ground.

She tensed when a hand dropped onto her shoulder. It was Mrs.Martia, a plump, old woman.

"Molly, dear, why did you tell Tristan you wouldn't kill her? You scared her, and that was an awfully frightful thing to say," she asked.

"I told her the truth," Molly said, confused. "Aren't we always supposed to tell the truth?"

**____________________**

Molly was choking. She was choking on her laughter because they were all so stupid. So astoundingly moronic that it was difficult to comprehend.

Couldn't they see?

Why didn't they notice?

She choked again as Sherlock passed her, rattling off some deduction about her lipstick and how it clashed with her skin tone. She knew that normal people would be hurt, so she acted, throwing on a pout and hunching in on herself slightly. John threw her an apologetic glance and glared at Sherlock.

She went home that night, and laughed and laughed and laughed until her stomach hurt, the utter hilarity of Sherlock's seemingly unattending genius turning her to fits of hysteria.

Why couldn't they see?

Because they thought they knew her.

No. They knew Molly Hooper. Pathologist. Made bad jokes, but good coffee.Had a cat they think died because he got a hold of some rat poisoning.

As if. Molly gutted the cat months ago. It threw up over her best shoes.

Nobody knew Molly.

There was something wrong with Molly. She didn't feel. Did she? Sometimes. She was happy, and mad and a mixture of the two. There was no 'naturally' for her, no 'instinctually'. She looked at people, studied them. She knew how to act by copying, imitation. And if she was a second late to laugh, or frown, nobody said anything. She was just Molly Hooper. Little Lonely Morgue Maiden.

She liked things other people didn't. Death, and blood, and the occasional beautiful knife. She had things other people didn't, like a crime syndicate that reached all around the world, and 14 different nuclear weapons trained on several large cities.

Happy madness.

Psychopathic mania.

Whichever you prefer.

**____________________**

Molly liked people. Not just people, but interesting peope. People who made her feel.

Sherlock Holmes made her feel. Feel happy, and proud. Even the genius he was couldn't see through her. Her elaborately crafted scheme. He thought she loved him. He didn't want her to love him, so he looked anywhere but her. Brilliant.

Jim from IT made her feel. Feel happy, and proud. She could see through him, but he couldn't see her. He tried to hide it, oh yes he did, but she saw. Molly sees everything. Sometimes his lip would curl into a shark's smile, and his eyes would darken, his whole stance straightening and his voice deepening. Then he would change back into Jim from IT, dopey grin and brown puppy eyes, lovely lilting voice and drooping shoulders, and Molly Hooper would smile sweetly at him, while Molly howled with laughter.

And then it turned out he wasn't Jim from IT. He was Jim Moriarty, Consulting Criminal. He thought he was the best, the most clever.

That day, when Sherlock pronounced Jim gay, Molly Hooper got angry, flustered. She waved her hands and clenched her fists. She confronted Jim, and he gave her a sad smile, brown eyes flashing with apology and cunning. Before he left, Molly let a smile slip, and she made it waver slightly when Jim searched her with curious eyes, looking at her in a different light.

They have similar minds, Molly and Jim. Nobody looks at you when you're small, and sweet, and have big, brown eyes.

Brilliant.

**___________________**

Being Molly Hooper was easy. Molly Hooper had a nervous grin and bubbly laughter. Molly Hooper loved loose pants and frilly jumpers. Molly Hooper lived in a little flat with her little lonesome self.

If you came to Molly Hooper's little flat, you wouldn't find her.

Oh, but she was very good at excuses.

She was just at the

post/shop/theatre/cinema/pool/mall

Why?

Because it was a decoy house. Prime target.

Molly had a brain, so everyday, after work Molly Hooper took the tube to a faraway city, where she then fell away. Molly stepped forward, dressed in one of the many suits she owned, sharp heels clacking with a smartness that made every man who worked for her cringe, her brown hair swinging behind her with a gentle beauty that juxtaposed the blank apathy of her face, straight into a townhouse with more hidden tech and power than the whole House of Parliament.

**____________________**

"Who sent you here?" Molly asked coolly.

Her eyes flitted over him, categorizing and memorising every reaction. The man panted heavily, his harsh breaths turning into grating screams when Molly drew the daggar over the skin of his forearm, splitting the flesh until she hit the swell of his bicep.

"I c-can't tell you. My f-family. He h-has my famil-" here the man choked, spluttering until he dribbled blood down his chin. "Family."

"Disappointing," Molly remarked casually, fitting her hand over his mouth as she pressed the tip of the knife to his chest, pushing slowly and listening to his agonized screeches.

She used a little more pressure when she met with one of his ribs, wriggling until it slipped under it, shearing through the intercostal muscle with ease. She stopped when the handle of the blade bumped against his skin, and she removed her hand and laid her head over his heart. The man whimpered and cried, until his noises stopped when his breating shallowed, death coming slowly and surely with his blood loss, and the knife spearing through his lung.

Molly listened to his heart stutter, lurch, then stop, and a final breath whooshed through the man. Molly drew back, slipping the blade from his dead body and wiping it against the man's cheek. His eyes were glassy and his head lolled against the back of the chair.

"Facsinating," Molly breathed, frowning when she saw the blood on her suit jacket sleeve.

"Andrews," Molly said loudly, and the man immediatly stepped away from his place on the wall.

"Yes, Miss Molly?" he asked quietly.

They didn't call her Hooper. Just Molly. She didn't have a last name. Did she? She must have, some while ago. Maybe she forgot it. She's forgotten a lot of things, hasn't she?

"Arrange to have this suit dry cleaned. That dummy got his blood on the sleeve," she said, turning to him. "Do you think it will come out?"

Andrews leaned forward, into the spotty lighting of the warehouse. A bit cliche, Molly knew.

"Yes, I think so, Miss," Andrews assured her.

"Lovely!" Molly said, her bright mood morphing into a giant smile on her face. Andrews smiled back, but she could see the fear, lurking behind the strained lines of his lips.

Molly sees everything.

____________________

 

Sometimes she would slow down, and time would crawl. She froze, and she only knew this because she inevitably grew cold, as the hours passed while she stood, eyes wide and body still, the world moving on without her.

She took these moments to reel in her madness, because if she didn't she would rage and tear out her hair, she would burn the whole world to the ground and dance through the mouth of hell, she would scream, and laugh, the sound bouncing through space, drown in other's blood, or perhaps her own, anything, anything to fill the burning pit of insanity she feels inside her chest that deepens and darkens with every day she still lives.

Because she knows, Molly knows she's not right. Her brain is on a different wave, she's sadistic, she's wrong, bad, messed up. Her mother told her these things and she got rid of her mother, watched in silence as her father wilted and withered, pulled along by death's hand and pushed by hers. Three sharp knocks drew her out of her stillness and she blinked, turning to face whoever was at the door.

"Hullo, Marcus," Molly said brightly.

"Miss Molly," Marcus returned softly. "Your suit is back from the drycleaners. Would you like me to place it in your room?" 

They were never loud. Molly liked that. She liked the quiet, the soft tranquility.

She took a step to him, and he instanty straightened, dropping his head. She circled him, letting the tips of her fingers brush his back and chest, and he squinted his closed eyes and shuddered. Molly smiled to herself, and cradled his face in her small hands, bringing him down to her level. She laid a small kiss on his forehead, and tenderly brushed his brown hair off his forehead.

"Yes, Marcus. You can place my suit in my room. Thank you," Molly said.

Marcus shuddered once more, before straightening, sending Molly a nod, and leaving her office quickly.

Molly giggled, and went back to her desk, wondering when she could next hold a beating heart.

** ___________________ **

"Why?" Molly asked simply.

The man tied to the chair laughed. "She was getting nosy."

"So you killed her?"

Bailey nodded. "Yes," he answered, shifting in his ropes.

Molly shook her head forlornly. "That was a very stupid decision."

The man scoffed, and she saw her men shake their heads in disdain, scornfully eyeing Bailey. Molly's eyes sharpened and she tossed back her shoulders.

"Do you think I'm playing games?" Molly asked sharply. The spot in her chest ached.

Bailey immediately blanched. "I-I was-"

Molly reached forward and snatched a handful of his hair, tugged hard until his head was bent backwards. He cried out in pain and struggled in the ropes.

"I don't play games, Bailey," Molly hissed. "This is not a game, this is a highly functioning crime ring that I run, because people respect me, because I hold all their pretty hearts in my hand."

As quickly as her temper came, it passed, and Molly released his hair and stood straight.

"You really messed up. Very bad choice, very bad indeed," Molly uttered softly.

She waved her hand, and two of her men, Indra and Matthews, dragged a trembling man over to the chair. They released him, and he stood shakily, looking between Bailey and Molly.

"You," she said to the man. "You are going to go back to your employer and tell him that if he ever kills anybody under my protection again, I will make him into a canvas and use his hair in my paintbrushes. Make sure you include my name, 'k?"

The man whimpered, and nodded. She turned to Bailey.

"Please, I was just following orders, you know, I had to do my job, and-" Bailey shot off quickly.

Molly's swiftly raised hand cut him off. "Your words are useless, and you know what? I'm tired of hearing them."

"So? You're going to gag me then?" Bailey asked.

Molly stared.

Then Molly laughed.

She bent over and hugged her gun to her stomach, waving her hand at the man until her men began to hesitantly join in on the laughter.

"Oh," Molly said, wiping a tear from her eye, "You are sooo naive!"

Bailey's face scrunched. "What-"

Molly was still laughing as she put the bullet through his head.

**____________________**

She heard the floorboard creak but she didn't so much as open her eyes, opting to stay silent until the door opened softly. She wondered how he had managed to get past her security. She was staying in her second house, the first house being updated with new technology.

"Have you come here to kill me?" Molly asked calmly.

The shadow stopped immediately, but it swayed and a face came into sharp relief within the moonlight.

Sebastian Moran.

Hmm.

So Moriarty wanted her dead. Intriguing.

Moran said nothing, but he shifted his grip on the handgun he carried. Molly checked his feet and smiled. No shoes, just his black socks. She knew what he expected.

He expected her to shout, scream, run.

No.

Disappointing, though. She hadn't expected the employer to be Jimmy. But then again she had half expected this. She used to be ambiguous, anonymous, until she had brazenly told the man to relay her name. Along with the description he undoubtably gave, this was ineviitable. People would learn her name, and her face, and try to eradicate her as a threat. Unfortunately, for them, they had no idea of the power she held.

Molly shrugged. "Alright," she said airily, turning and giving Moran her back, settling under her duvet tightly.

She could practically here the confusion and wariness, and she giggled quietly.

She heard the floorboard creak again, and she extended her arm, probing with her fingers until she found a small switch. She flicked it, and a wavering exclamation of pain rung through her flat, the heavy thud of a body ringing through her cavernous home. She flicked the switch again, and a loud moan sounded out as she scrabbled to the edge of her bed, looking over.

"Floors with electrical wires prepared to give a shock equivalent to a policeman's taser. An initial shock of 50,000 volts, dropping to 1,200 volts afterword. 19 pulses per second," Molly chirped. "Exquisite, isn't it?"

Moran struggled on the floor, twisting and writhing in pain, his gun somewhere under her dresser.

"I bet you're regretting not wearing shoes. Sure, you could walk through my house quietly, but now..." Molly sighed, not having to finish the sentence.

She stood, her duvet sliding away to reveal her skull print pajamas. She crouched over the panting man and slid her hand around his neck, closing around his throat briefly before circling his shirt collar, finding the microphone easily.

"I'm disappointed in you, Jimmy. If you wanted to play, all you had to do was ask."

She reattached the microphone, stepping away as her men flooded into her home, stomping up the stairs with elite precision. They dragged Moran away, and Molly tittered.

"What a lovely night," she sighed blissfully.

**____________________**

Molly was being Molly Hooper, having lunch with one of her 'girlfriends', when she got a phone call.

"Oh!" Molly Hooper said, "I'll be just a moment."

Molly stepped out of the restaurant, and brought the phone to her ear.

"Miss Molly, we caught an intruder in your home. He says he knows you. He's asking to speak with you."

Curious.

"Alright, put him on."

"Well, good golly, Miss Molly! I thought you had better hospitality!"

Moriarty.

"I said all you had to do was ask, Jimmy," Molly demured.

"Oh, but where's the fun in that?" he sung.

Molly paused. "Andrews," she said, and the phone was immediately passed over.

"Yes, Miss Molly?"

"Let him free. I'll be back in half an hour."

"Yes, Miss Molly," Andrews agreed.

**____________________**

Molly stopped in front of her door, smiling slightly when she realised she was excited.

Well, of course. Moriarty was the one of the few people to make Molly feel.

She entered her home, kicking off her shoes before making her way to the kitchen.

"Can I interest you in a glass of wine?" she called out.

There was no response, but Molly could feel the atmosphere shift as Moriarty came into the kitchen.

"How about some Talbot, 1996?" she asked, reaching into her above cuboard and taking out two wine glasses.

"You have good taste in wine, poppet," Moriarty commented, sliding up behind her, sounding next to her ear.

Molly dipped her head at the compliment, smiled a fleeting smile.

"And you have such lovely taste in suits," Molly reciprocated, pausing slightly to turn and run a finger down his chest, weaving in and out of the buttons. She felt Moriarty's chest puff out a bit as she touched him, and she laughed and laughed.

She didn't look at him when she passed, walking on her bare feet until she reached her sitting room. Molly placed down Moriarty's glass, then sat in her favorite chair, curling her feet under her and taking down her hair.

She looked up when Moriarty didn't sit. He stood in the entrance, and watched her. She felt a spark of electricity when she saw his dark eyes, and a larger spark when his lip lifted into that sharp smile.

Molly shifted, teasingly beckoned a finger, curling it towards herself, and Moriarty complied, running his hands down his thighs before he sat. He crossed his legs conservatively and picked up his wine glass, setting an elbow on the arm rest.

Moriarty lifted the glass to his lips, humming as the red liquid poured down his throat. Molly watched in fascination as his Adam's apple bobbed.

"Marvelous," he murmured.

Molly smiled in agreement. "So," she started. "What can I help you with?"

Moriarty set down his wine glass and clasped his hands.

"You, kitten, lied to me," he warbled, his accent pitching the words high and low.

Molly cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head. "How so?" she asked.

"Miss Molly," Moriarty stated. "You never told me you had a criminal network. And I thought we were so close."

"That comes after the fifth date, dearest," Molly sang.

"Oh, and sex comes after the third?" Moriarty asked, a sparkle in his eye and his knife edge smile.

Molly smiled back, remembering that night. They had been sitting on her couch, watching some idiotic witless show, when she had felt Jim's fingers tracing designs on her thigh. Molly had allowed it, and soon enough they were collasping in her bed, ripping the clothes off each other.

Oh, and it had been hard. So hard to be Molly Hooper then. Molly had wanted to see that twisted smile, had wanted his dark eyes to sharpen. She had clenched her fingers in the bedsheets to stop from digging her nails into his back, had chewed her tongue to keep from biting at his neck.

"Only for special people," Molly replied.

"You think I'm special?" Moriarty asked with false eagerness, but Molly could see the excitement in his eyes.

"Oh, yes. Consulting Criminal, how brilliant. How...extraordinary. Killed a boy at age 13," Molly sighed.

"Don't undersell yourself," Moriarty said. "You've been hiding from me this whole time. Not only with this whole criminal business, but also with how scrumptious you look in a suit."

Molly smirked, reaching forward to run her fingers over his chest again. "I could say the same for you, Jimmy."

Moriarty's eyes flashed and he grabbed her hand, squeezing it on the verge of pain.

"Jimmy' is not my name, kitten," Molly stood.

"Should I call you Jim, then?" she asked, sauntering over until she hovered above him. "Such a delectable man, you are, Jim."

Jim's lips twisted into that smile again, and he moved his hand to Molly's elbow, tugging until she fell into his lap.

"I think that we could be great together, Miss Molly," Jim said, slipping a hand up her back to tug on a lock of her hair.

"I think so, too, Jim," Molly agreed. "I'll be Persephone, and you can be Hades."

Jim smirked. "I put the bodies on the table and you cut them up."

Molly nodded, and placed a single finger under his chin, tilting his head back until his fathomless eyes stared up at her. She cupped his cheek, rubbing her palm over the stubble. Jim hummed and pushed his cheek into her hand slightly, his lids slipping down a bit.

"Can I kiss you, my sweet?" Molly asked.

Jim opened his eyes fully, and smirked, moving his hand to grip the back of her neck, pulling her down to him.

Their lips met, and Molly felt.

She ran a hand through his carefully slicked back hair, and tangled her fingers in it, tugging sharply. A thrill surged through her when he growled, the noise coming from inside his chest, vibrating into her body. Jim nipped her bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue, and Molly moaned before she could stop herself, shifting in the chair to straddle him. Her skirt dug into her thighs, and she went to move her hand from Jim's hair and shoulder, but he beat her, running his smooth hands up her flesh and pushing her skirt to her hips, trailing electricity.

She could just see, just see the way the world would bow to them, how every person would drop to their knees at the sight of their faces. She couldn't wait to see the self-loathing in Sherlock's face, how much he would hate himself for glazing over her, for how easily he fell for her lies, her pretend. The confusion in John's, the surprise in other's. A bubble of laughter welled in that space inside her chest, and she cackled. The greatest game was yet to be played, but Molly had already won.

"Oh, yes," Molly sighed. "We'll make a great pair."


End file.
